University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

A Street in London. Enter Sir William Travers and Lord Guy Ruffler.
Travers.
Guy, I will not! This dodging petticoats
Round the street-corners—peeping into shops—
Leering, with shameless meaning, under hoods—
Staring hot blushes into modest cheeks—
And fancying a favor if you catch
A wandering glance—is sheer against my manhood.
Tut! man, you slander all your female kin
By this procedure.

Ruffler.
(Looking off.)
Do I?—Pah! look there:
Into the goldsmith's shop! Can they not see
That I am looking at them? Travers, come,
We'll enter, too: I want a ring—a chain.—
'Sblood! are the women fools?

Trav.
There seem to be
Two fools among them.

Ruf.
Speak you for yourself?
Stand here a while.

Trav.
For what? To be the butt
Of my sharp self-contempt? Ruffler!

[Shaking him.]
Ruf.
(Still looking off.)
Hey!

Trav.
Nay;
I'm talking to you.

Ruf.
As my grandmother.

Trav.
You need it. Look you, listen to me, Guy;
Do you hold woman of no higher use—

Ruf.
Pish! let me go: I 've business in that shop.
Unhand me, pray.

[Struggles to get away.]
Trav.
No, sir, you shall not go.
I cannot see an insult thrust upon
A modest woman; and the man who can,
Without his nature flaming into wrath,
And his arm lifting with instinctive might,
Deserves to have his sisters, mother, wife,
Tossed in together at a city's sack,
While he looks on in powerless agony.

Ruf.
You could not please them better. What a stir,
Among the velvets and the damasked silks,
There was when the invading French were feared!
What rubbing up of jewels, what a dust
Among old finery! How some delicate maid
Would squeak, in her high treble, “Dear mamma,
They say those monsters do not spare the weak:
Let us be caught as ladies!” Then the dame
Would smooth her powder, with a gentle sigh
Of patient resignation. On my life,
I never saw the women in such feather!
You 'd thought the land was dressed for holiday,
Not for invasion. All the time, we men
Stood trembling, like huge jellies, for our throats;
While our brave women—now, you see, I praise them—
Made nothing of their honors!

Trav.
Monstrous stuff!
I would not share your notions of the sex,
To win a tribe of Helens. I can see,
Within the simple innocence and truth
Of uncorrupted woman, a fair spirit,
Ranked, by all-seeing Heaven, not far beneath
Its sinless denizens.

Ruf.
(Laughing.)
Now Heaven forgive
His wicked blasphemy! I'll draw you woman,
According to her earthly character,
Not as your poets make her. Woman, Will,
Is animated vanity. A toy
Made up each morning, by a forward whim,
That scarcely lasts the day through. The same sigh
Over a broken fan, or a broken heart,
Measures her depth of feeling. A long stare
At the last fashion, on a rival's back,
Shows her ambition. A conspicuous seat
At church, or theatre, where she may be
The conscious centre of a thousand eyes,
Shows her religion, or her taste. The power
To bear hot sentiment, and frigid love,
Her soul's endurance proves. Ask her to give
Her hero's character, and when you have
The color of his eyes, and hair, and cloak,
You'll praise her nice perception. See her weed
Her eyebrows of gray hairs, or paint her cheeks,
And there 's her industry, and love of art.
Come to her death-bed—

Trav.
Nay.

Ruf.
Well, end her there:
The thing is soulless, and can go no further.
Yet, for all this, a very pretty doll
For man to dandle.

Trav.
If the heavens be just,
You'll pay this one day. Guy, I reverence woman.

Ruf.
For what? Here 's a discovery, indeed!
For what?

Trav.
For many things. And yet there is
One thing I never fully understood,—
Love, love.

Ruf.
Why, that 's the simplest thing on earth.

Trav.
The very simplest! Were you e'er in love?

Ruf.
Always.

Trav.
With whom?

Ruf.
With everything that wears
More than a yard of velvet in its skirts.
You are a world too wise for happiness.

Trav.
The man who looks for it beyond himself
Is a mere fool. But, Ruffler, I intend
To marry shortly.

Ruf.
Heaven preserve your victim!
What, you'll set traps, ha? Scheme her to your bed?
Play on her weakness? and declare, the while,
How much you reverence her; as travellers say
Some pagans do, who flog unmercifully
Their painted gods, and worship them, by turns.
You talk of taking a poor maid, as though
She were an oyster.—Hist! they leave the shop,
And come this way.

Trav.
In decency retire.

Ruf.
Not I, by Jove!

Trav.
To please me, Guy.

Ruf.
Poh! poh!
You are too much humored.

Trav.
For a moment, then,
Until I can escape.

Ruf.
Well, well; come on.
A woman, more or less, is little gained,
And nothing lost. Sneak, dodge;—I am with you.

[They walk up the stage.]
(Enter Lady Goldstraw and Madge.)
Lady Goldstraw.
La! they are there again. It is too bad:
I cannot walk abroad, to feel the sun,
Without these shadows following. Every day
A pack of courtiers dog me to my door;
Or walk before me, dropping billet-doux;
And one, but Thursday last—I tell you, Madge—
Cast a French plume, that must have cost the knave
A good ten pound, in hope I would return it.

Madge.
And did you not?

Lady G.
Not I, you silly child!
I set my little foot upon it, thus,
And ground it in the mire; to show my pride,
And brave, contemptuous spirit. Mark those men:
See how the tall one eyes me. Ha! ha! ha!
[Laughing.]
A proper fellow, too, and bravely trimmed:
A courtier, doubtless. I do wonder, now,
If 't was that villain twitched my dress and sighed,
As we came through the church-door!—Mercy! Madge,
Don't stare so at them. Fie! you naughty child,
I'm blushing for you. Marry! when you 've seen
As many men as I, you'll know a way
To cut your eyes at them, that stirs them more
Than all your rustic glares.

Madge.
Come, mother, come.
Yon jackanapes is grinning like death's head,
With much the same expression; and his friend
Has great ado to keep him back. I fear
The coxcomb will be saucy.

Lady G.
Will he, rogue?—
Let him: I'll give him better than he sends.
Why, things have reached a pass, when pretty women
Are at the beck of every handsome dog
That strolls the streets! My husband, the Lord Mayor—

Madge.
Tell me the story as we pass along.
Yon bear will slip his keeper, if we stay.

Lady G.
So, then,—but how you hurry me away!

[Exit with Madge.]
(As they go off, enter Darkly.)
Ruf.
(Advancing.)
Darkly!

Darkly.
Forsooth.

Ruf.
“Forsooth!” Geneva-cloak!
You end of texts, and stupid homilies,
You all that 's bad in every Christian sect,
Do you “forsooth” me, sirrah, ha?

Dark.
Amen!

Ruf.
A fool! you sin-begotten tag-rag! What,
Are you pranked up, now, in your holy mood?
Come, saint, lay by your amaranthine crown,
And track those women.

Dark.
Ah!

Ruf.
You sigh! you'll groan
When you have gotten to the martyrdom,
I am preparing for your sainthood.

Dark.
O!

Trav.
Guy, if hard knocks can break a road to heaven,
You 're on the way. The man has honest scruples;
Do not outface his conscience.

Ruf.
Have you scruples?—
Have you a conscience?—Have you anything
That hints at honesty within your dirt?
I'll put him to the question. (Seizes Darkly.)
Answer me!

Dark.
The Lord forbid!

Trav.
Indeed!

Ruf.
Of course. Go, knave!

Dark.
Why should I follow the profane of earth,
The painted instruments of thy desire?

Ruf.
Because I order.

Dark.
Bear me witness, sir,
Here, in this world, and at the last account,
I sin by man's compulsion.

Trav.
Truly!

Dark.
Ah!

[Exit.]
Ruf.
A wretch like that would ornament the Shades,
And put the little devils to the blush,
Make Satan pine with envy, and upset
Chaos itself. I never saw his twin.
The club of Hercules could hardly drive
One hand to pen a love-song, while the other
Pilfered his lion-skin, with ohs and ahs
Enough to raise a whirlwind.

(Enter Harry Goldstraw.)
Trav.
Who is this?
What, Harry Goldstraw? Happily met again.
We were in Rome together—mind you, sir?—
That day the miracle would hardly work—
You know the virgin that did roll its eyes?—
Because the rain had rusted something, ha!
Much to the Church's scandal.

Goldstraw.
Ay; and you
To Fra Anselmo, a most bitter papist,
Did seriously offer to anoint
The clockwork with the chrism, and let the Pope
Go home ungreased. “Che, che?” he cried. “Because,
Fra,” you replied, “the Pope's eyes roll without it!”

Trav.
My friend, Lord Ruffler, Mr. Goldstraw. (They bow.)
Boys,
Let 's shake up London with a revel. How,
Goldstraw, you flinch?

Gold.
I have a reason, sir.
You saw two ladies pass—

Ruf.
I told you so:
Here is another hound upon the scent.
Look you, Will Travers, men are all the same;
You are the only Joseph upon earth.
So you were trailing them? O! never mind;
We will not quarrel; we'll divide them justly.
Take the old woman; give me the young thing:
I have a taste for unripe fruit.—

Gold.
My lord—

Ruf.
Well, you may wince, but so fate orders it.
A fairer piece of Eve I never saw
Than the young baggage. You 'd have laughed to see
The little creature stare at me.

Trav.
A look
Full of pure modesty, and more designed
For me than you.

Ruf.
A most immodest leer.
Hear, the vain puppy, how he claims her glance!

Gold.
I pray you, listen—

Ruf.
As for your share,—phew!
Think what a bundle of fine clothes you'll have—
What pots of paint—how many different wigs—
What an array of teeth, all movable,
And warranted to baffle time's decay!
And then her cotton;—why, an Indiaman
Carries no greater cargo! Whalebone too!
A very female Jonah, all encased
In the sea-monster's ribs! And mark—

Gold.
My lord,
Know you of whom you speak?

Ruf.
Not I, in faith:
Some lady of the suburbs, I suppose,
Who 'd bargain for her girl. You frown? 'Ods blood!
Who is the woman, then?

Gold.
My aunt.

Ruf.
The devil!

Trav.
Shame on you, Guy! You 've given a sorry wound
To the best nature ever lodged in man.
See how a loose tongue, like an archer, blind
With the thick dust of battle, shoots its shafts,
With undiscerning aim, at foe or friend.
Down on your knees!

Ruf.
Your pardon. Here 's my hand;
Or, if you like it better, here 's my sword;
Both at your service.

Gold.
By your leave, my lord,
I'll take the hand; it seems an honest one,
Though somewhat hasty.

Trav.
Spoken like brave men!
The sword should be a backward arbiter.
If human weakness can forgive a wrong,
Without blood spilled, let it be done; for so—
By just such steps of charity and love—
We climb to heaven.

Ruf.
Alas! I scarcely know
How to implore your confidence again.
You seem to bear a grief about with you,
That I, perhaps, might lighten.

Trav.
Harry, speak.
A truer mind, and a more slippery tongue,
A better heart, and a more idle head,
Were never bundled up in stranger sort
Than in Guy Ruffler.

Ruf.
When I go to service,
My master shall not get my character
From you, my boy.

Gold.
Alas! the character
You gave my aunt fills up my former grief.
That you, a stranger, by a casual glance,
Should come so near the thing she really is,
Gives me a sorrowful conclusion. She—
But I'll not talk. Come to her house with me;
Where, if you be true friends, you may behold
Things more for tears than laughter.

Trav.
Ah! I see.

Gold.
No, sir, you cannot see, with eyes like mine,
The open folly and the vanity
With which she stains my uncle's troubled grave,—
The faithful guardian of my orphanage,
Whose fragrant memory sheds no balm on her,
Amid the train of fops and fashionists
That flutter round her gold, in buzzing swarms;
Slaves whose mere presence would disgust the sense
Of many a wanton. All these things have sprung,
Not from her heart, which, at the root, is good;
But by the culture of such poisoned sprouts
As grow upon the surface of our nature,—
Self-love and vanity. But come; I'll preach
More by example, if you feel inclined.

Trav.
Nay, Harry, quit these dumps. A woman's whims
Are all too light to bow so strong a soul.

Ruf.
I'll find a way to cure her malady.
I never saw a woman yet of stuff
I could not mould, as wax before a fire.
Some merry plot, half serious and half gay,
I'll plan. I undertake it, sir; and what
I undertake, I do.

Trav.
Go to! Here is
[Patting Ruffler.]
My Vanity, my Ego, my great Me:
Match any woman with him, if you can!

[Exeunt.]